THROUGH MY WRISTS, NEW HOLES in my own so-recent history, i have found an ending. endings are demarcations of recognition. for me, they signify a reflective moment where i see "myself" and make profound changes regarding my intent. they are moments when i plan to guard my intent, to become the "master" of my lack of individuality. i give up my will to nietzsche-like power because i live in a fruitless society of overproduction and under-appreciation. and sadly, appreciation IS THE CRUX of art. without appreciation for art, the very souls of artists turn into currency. it is not the other way around. if artists can't manufacture the joyous outpouring required to captivate an audience, it will transition into something else. and it is good for that. the spirit of art is so much better than art itself. one is, at best, a beautiful still-born ratio, visible, physical, prominent, apparent and "once alive", now dead. but still, you can experience the faint glimmerings of the pulse that once gave destiny an eye hole into the bloodline of the heaven it has always dreamed of, the land it will never circulate into... and here it is, some great manifestation of what was really the definition of great. a copy of a spirit. a still moment of life. the stuff i've been reading says i shouldn't quote it. i should give voice to the creatures as they are to me. i should reach into that unknown and grab them. and i know this is personal. it is in opposition to the very public life i have lived as a hermit among men, walking up and down their streets, studying them endlessly and returning to my mental lair to ponder and reflect their strange motions and the relentless boredom of their actions. and now, as i sit in a cafe drinking a sam adams on this "just barely not stifling mugginess at 8:37 p.m." night, i can't help laughing to myself. and tapping my feet to the world music playing in the background as the loud conversation of spainards in the window fills the small room. my brazilian housemate types away next to me. the end is fading away now. it's growing distant. the book is closing on another chapter. but new beginnings are like music. they ponder and muse and move until the beat becomes a format by which the future of music records itself. we will hopefully long live to remember the day we bought our hearing back from a service provider. and i am like this, too, having been recorded and now, rerecorded. but there is no erasure, that great and hopeful dawn when memories disappear and never more are made known. so instead, i no longer make them known, but like a small child, i return the dead goldfish into the ocean they came from so long ago. for i did not crawl up from the ocean. i did not shed gills and fins, scales and slippery for dry and mighty. i am not a monkey. sooner a snake or a bird or a cold-blooded creature who worships the sun. i, too, chase after the sky spirits who SINK AWAY from what is real. i chase after light fields and bands, the speed of right, that fast, ever fast pace that projects our deaths further and further from the surface of this spiky planet. so if you long for erasure, research medical drugs. they have a diary that reads like a dictionary. your complaint has been logged, lodged and recorded. there is no erasing the record once it is written. there is no undoing death if you believe in it. how sad to dream of erasure and elyssian fields simultaneously. how sad to be sad and dreary when the world is on fire with delight. sunny delight! no, no, no, this is not the luck of the new era. that was the promise, but the promise keeper has turned up with the same minimal amount of mercy which reality shows, flouncing its flickering fanny romps and rousing mating rituals. no, this is instead the era of the last era, just older. this is the period when television network history turns fifty and subdivides into fracture. fifty, for the media, will last a decade in honor of the new presidents. we will have long campaigns and mental wars are infinite because they know no bounds within time and don't discriminate over the authenticity of their users. we have seen a great rising and just as spectacularly, the new dynasty of offspring will bring all things familiar and breaths of what will indeterminately be called, "fresh air", though it may have LESS symbolic meaning than its past usage, tied more to a reality than a balloon on a string. or a handful of red balloons. throw in some birds and an eifel tower... and, more than anything, i feel the burn from my laptop keyboard emanating into my wrists. it's a brilliant direct connect to addict a whole new generation of users into untold hand problems caused by the over-warming or destabilizing of the cellular makeup of the human hand, as magnificent as the human brain, indeed!! we only follow the leads we're given in life and sometimes they don't lea